


Controlled Burn

by akelios



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Child Abuse, Dresden Files Kink Meme, Kinkmeme, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akelios/pseuds/akelios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half an hour later I knew that the man we had encountered was named Justin DuMorne, and that he had been Harry's foster father for six years. I knew that Harry had gone into his care a normal orphan. Which is not to say that he'd been a happy, care free child, but that he hadn't shown signs of trauma or abuse. I knew that he'd left DuMorne's care after a fire that had claimed the life of his foster sister, Elaine Mallory. And I knew that he'd come out of DuMorne's care underweight. Scarred, bruised, frightened and angry. Paranoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled Burn

**Author's Note:**

> The child abuse warned for is not graphically depicted. Some signs of the abuse and wounds resulting from it are briefly described.
> 
> Also, this is the fic where I resurrect Justin just to let Marcone kill him thoroughly.

"I don't get it." Harry tilted his head to the left, then to the right. Admittedly the painting in front of us was very abstract, but it hardly deserved the look of faint amusement and utter confusion that had taken up residence on Harry's face.

"You don't actually need to understand it, Harry. Just nod and pretend that it's fascinating." I slipped my arm under his duster briefly, a light touch and then we separated again. The crowd milled around us, an uneven tide of humanity that I kept track of out of habit. Mr. Hendricks gave us enough space to allow for the illusion of privacy and normalcy, but I knew he had security well in hand. On top of which, very little caught Harry by surprise. The man was constantly on alert, unless I wore him down.

"It's ugly." Harry pointed at the price tag. "Hellishly expensive and ugly. How about you spend your money on something else."

"It's for a charity, Harry. The point is not the art, but-"

"What the fuck?!" Harry had gone rigid beside me, his neck craned around to keep track of a man moving through the crowd toward us. The man was not very tall, several inches shy of my own height, with graying dirty blond hair and a compact, muscular frame. I couldn't see any weapons on him but the tension singing through Harry made my mind jump to the more magical denizens of the world. In which case he wouldn't need a physical object to turn into a weapon.

"Har-"

"Don't say my name." Harry snarled and grabbed my arm, pushing me back behind him slightly. I made eye contact with Hendricks, who moved closer, coming around behind the man. "Don't speak to me. Ever. You don't get to- Just fuck off. Go the fuck away." The man sighed and shook his head, a regretful look twisting across his face.

"I had hoped you'd moved beyond this. You should have taken the treatment that the Council offered."

"And have them fill my head with your lies? No. I know the truth, and that's never going to change. You don't get to erase this. You don't get to erase what you did to us." I held my silence, the arm not held in Harry's bone crushing grip slipped casually into my coat, fingers just brushing the handle of a blade.

"We were both her victims, Harry." He reached out a hand to touch Harry's arm and the reaction was instantaneous. Harry stepped back so that the man's hand never connected. His other arm came up, releasing the death grip he had on me and the man's head snapped back. He staggered, fell, and blood blossomed, dripping from his nose and split upper lip. Harry was nearly vibrating, balanced to move any way he needed, to dodge. He was keyed up for a fight. Hendricks moved in, came between us and the man on the floor. People were staring, whispering. We ignored them.

"Same as always, Harry. Same as always. So quick to jump to her defense. Elaine really got to you, didn't she?" The man pushed himself to his feet, his fingers pressed against his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood. "I'm sorry I didn't realize what she was doing to you. Her poison is still destroying you, even now. If you would just let us help you, all this could get better. You could live a normal life."

"Go fuck yourself." Harry whirled and stalked off, his hand catching my arm again, dragging me with him. I looked back, memorizing the man's features. He watched us go and the expression dropped from his face. Something else, something dark and possessive clawed across his features and made the blood dripping from his chin look as though it belonged.

"I only want what's best you for, Harry! That's all I've ever wanted." Harry's fingers dug into my arm until I thought I could hear the bones crunch against one another. But he never stopped, never looked back.

~

"This is a bad idea, Boss." I sighed and looked at the file sitting beside me on the car seat. Hendricks leaned in the window, his expression one of disapproval. "If Dresden doesn't want to tell you who that guy was, you need to respect that. Personal boundaries. Remember how we've had this talk?"

I met his gaze, saying nothing. Hendricks grunted and stood. I waited until the car pulled away from the curb, until I was certain that I could be alone with my thoughts before I picked the folder up and opened it.

Half an hour later I knew that the man we had encountered was named Justin DuMorne, and that he had been Harry's foster father for six years. I knew that Harry had gone into his care a normal orphan. Which is not to say that he'd been a happy, care free child, but that he hadn't shown signs of trauma or abuse. I knew that he'd left DuMorne's care after a fire that had claimed the life of his foster sister, Elaine Mallory. And I knew that he'd come out of DuMorne's care underweight. Scarred, bruised, frightened and angry. Paranoid. Reclusive. A hoarder. And seemingly unable to care for himself in many basic ways without someone reminding him of it. Dismissive of his own personal needs and cares. I suspected what might have happened in the intervening years. The only question now was confirming it.

As we stepped out into the garage beneath my latest building project I dialed Ms. Gard.

~

The White Council, for all it's esoteric trappings, was a bureaucracy. As such, any proceeding of an official nature would be recorded. And those records copied. It was only slightly more difficult to get a copy of one of their records than it was to get copies of internal paperwork from the city.

I started with the pictures. They were similar to crime scene photos, only the notes appended to them referenced auras and magical energy residue. The first set was of the house that had burned down, including the charred and twisted remains of a human being. It was identified as one Elaine Mallory, with **WARLOCK** stamped in bright red ink behind her name. Some implements from a ritual of some kind were scattered around the body, melted and charred.

Next were the photographs of Justin DuMorne. The man had severe burns across his body, cuts and bruises that were clearly from a fight of some kind. His eyes were shadowed, dark. A medical report appended to the photos included mention of signs of dark magic on his person, though it was apparently inconclusive as to whether he had used the dark magic or been the subject of it, with a particular focus on his mind.

Harry's photos were last. Some of the wounds were familiar to me. I'd seen the scars they'd left on his body. Others had healed entirely by the time I met Harry. He looked small. Lost. There was little sign in the face in those pictures of the man I knew. A few small burns, but the bruising was the worst on him. The marks of fists, a dark collar of finger marks about his throat where someone had choked him. There was no fight in his eyes, no strength. The medical report again mentioned black magic and additional signs of attempts at mental tampering.

The transcripts of the trial and the examinations followed the Wardens' reports.

I was not shaking with anger by the time I'd finished reading and read between the lines. I'd moved beyond that point. It was nearly three in the morning when I picked up the phone to call Hendricks. It would be alright, he was used to being woken at odd hours. And he'd understand, once he'd seen everything.

~

It had taken less effort than I'd thought to arrange things. DuMorne had abominable security for someone who practiced black magic. Hubris, perhaps? Or was he still so closely watched by the Council, as Harry had been? The fear that _Elaine_ , the innocent child blamed for DuMorne's crimes had left a time bomb in Harry's mind, did that extend to DuMorne? I rather doubted it. The Council struck me as the kind to look askance at everyone but their own.

Justin DuMorne lay on the floor of a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Far from Chicago, far from Harry and any hint of complicity. The chains suppressed his magic, kept him from being able to do anything. I'd have preferred to do this without the chains. It was always better when they could fight back. He had no chance of escape but the hope of it made the eventual acceptance of defeat all the more sharp.

"Do you know who I am?" His voice was laughing, arrogant. I kicked him in the groin. It wasn't as hard as it could have been. I didn't want him to pass out on me. Not just yet. His breath exploded out of him in a grunt and he curled up like a bug.

"I know exactly who you are, Justin Alaric DuMorne." I flicked my knife open. I had plenty of fixed blade knives, but the snick provided a wonderful psychological effect. He flinched, and made a gesture with his fingers. I didn't recognize it specifically but I recognized that it was meant to be a magical gesture, the invocation of a spell. Nothing happened and the second of hesitation when he blinked down at his chained hands was delicious. I knelt, the point of the knife under his chin, pressing into the soft flesh there and he went still. People will still twitch, when you hold a gun to them. They know it's deadly, but they can't quite stop those little movements. Hold a knife to them and you suddenly have perfect stillness. It's amazing what the feel of cold, sharp metal can do. "You are a disease." I let the blade cut him, shallow, as I drew it down his chest.

I'd had the men who brought him leave him dressed. It was all about the details, in this kind of work. The slow removal of clothing works with you. Helps you take the subject from a place of comfort, of security, to where you want them. The shirt was so much scrap within a minute and he shivered a little in the freezing air. His skin was pale except where I'd nicked him. Tiny, harmless bits of blood and pain. Mere signposts of what was to come.

I let very tip of the knife bump across his side, pressing in hard enough that I could feel the ridge of each rib as I went. He hissed, ground his teeth together and glared at me in the dark. I looked back at him, watched his eyes as I reached the last rib, found only soft flesh. I flicked my gaze away, then back as I shoved the knife in, just below his ribs. It was sharp, so sharp that he didn't feel the wound at first. When his body registered what had happened, he jumped, making me carve a longer wound, making the blood flow more freely. I jerked the blade back out and he squealed. I'd had to wiggle it a little to pull it clear.

"Hells bells! What the- what do you want?! I'm sure this isn't-" He coughed, gasped as I stuck a finger into the wound, twirling it around inside of his body. "We can come to some sort of arrangement. I have money. Connections. Power you can't imagine. Whatever this is about, we can reach-" I shut him up by kicking him in the jaw. Repeatedly. The impacts were viscerally satisfying, right up until the point where I felt the bone give, heard the snap of it, wet through the flesh.

"Don't worry," I leaned down and dug my fingers into the skin, feeling the bones shift beneath my grip. He screamed and it was high pitched, warped because he couldn't move his mouth properly anymore. "See? You can still do the only thing I need you to do." I grabbed his right hand and stretched the fingers out from their clench. It was best to be methodical when working, so I started from the outside and moved in. I broke his pinky first, and by the time I finished with his left hand as well, he was shaking with the pain. 

I stepped away and set my knife down. I came back with my hands empty, the leather gloves creaking as I flexed my fingers. My men came out of the darker shadows around us and grabbed DuMorne, dragging him to his feet and holding him between them. He fought, of course, and I could see that he'd had some training. But he was without his magic; wounded, cold and probably still feeling the effects of the tranquilizers. They looked at me and I nodded. One of them took hold of both of DuMorne's arms, dragging him back against his chest. The other stepped back and shook himself out. A grin split his face. They didn't get a chance to do this kind of basic work as often as they'd like.

My men were professionals and very thorough. I didn't enjoy the beating they handed DuMorne, but it did satisfy. They dropped him and his head bounced against the concrete. He moaned and scraped at the floor with his hands, trying to crawl away. I picked up the nearest knife and threw it. It was hardly the best throw I'd ever made, but it hit him in the upper arm with a meaty thunk. I'd missed the bone. He screamed and I shook my head.

"I really expected better of you, DuMorne. A black wizard like yourself? Surely you can stand a little pain." I threw the second knife and it hit him in the hip. I think the sounds he was making were meant to be pleas, but it was very hard to understand him through the blood in his throat and the broken jaw. "Are you begging?" I laughed. "Tell me something. Did you ever listen to Harry's pleas? The girl, Elaine? Did they beg you to stop, please, not to hurt them? I'm certain they did, until they realized it didn't do any good." I bounced a third knife in my palm, a simple trick of flipping it over and over again. It shone in the faint light and his eyes, wide with pain and anger tracked it, hypnotized.

I knelt beside him and stabbed the blade into his thigh, away from the major arteries there. It was a sharp blade and his flesh parted beneath it easily, like cutting through a bag of grain. Memory supplied me with the sound, the feel of the dry patter of grain slipping out of the bag, a nearly wet sound, a rustle against the senses. Far more pleasant, more productive than the wet sucking sounds that came as I worked the knife through muscle and sinew. The tendons snapped with a faint twang, a fine spray of blood hitting me across the chin. I pulled the knife free and wiped it against his other pants leg.

I had never had cause to consider myself to be particularly creative. Clever, certainly, but not creative. I have always preferred to go with what I know, especially in this sort of work. Fortunately, what I know is highly effective. I carved DuMorne apart, pieced him out as much as I could while leaving him alive. It restricted me, sadly, but I persevered.

In the end, there is only so much that one can inflict on another human being before their body gives out. It's far more than what most people think, but it's not enough. Not in so many cases. I rose, the taste of DuMorne's blood in the very air I drew into my lungs and pulled my knives from his body. He whimpered, his eyes flickering to me through a mask of his own blood.

My shoes squeaked across the concrete, bloody footprints following me as I made my way over to the table and wiped the blades, putting them in their case. I'd dispose of them later, so there was no point in cleaning them thoroughly. The bloody rag I carried back over to DuMorne, along with the plastic tub of gasoline. I dropped the rag onto his chest and started to pour.

I suppose the liquid burned as it splashed down into his eyes, into the open wound that was his body. He twisted and squeaked as though it did. My men moved around the warehouse, soaking everything they could in gas and lighter fluid. The scents filled the air, driving down the heavier taste of blood with their sweetness. They gathered up the knives and everything else we would take with us and headed for the only door we hadn't sealed shut.

I was the last one out and they handed me the first bottle. Man has been making fire since before the dawn of time. It fascinates us, attracts us even as it threatens our lives. It destroys thoroughly. Beautifully. I lit the rag dangling from the neck with an old, heavy lighter and threw it so that it shattered against the floor a few feet from DuMorne. The gasoline ignited and he screamed, trying to roll away. The two men with me threw their bottles, surrounding DuMorne's form with fire, until there was nowhere to go. We sealed the door as the fire spread, his screams high and unintelligible. The sounds of a dying animal.

There was the necessary rush to get to safe distance from the blaze that was quickly engulfing the building, but after that I turned to watch. I began to see Harry's fascination for the flames as I watched them chew through the wood, beginning to melt metal and glass. It lacked the control of a gun, or even more so that of a blade, the clean lines and perfection of it. But fire was a living thing, devouring; pure in its hunger and destructive force. Dangerous and enticing. It fit him, fit Harry.

I watched until Harry's chosen element had destroyed the building and everything in it. Until there was nothing left but a blackened skeleton and ashes in the wind.


End file.
